You're Okay
by ClearAsCountryAir
Summary: It happened twice in one night.  First he learned too late of the danger he posed to John Watson.  But then, of course, he realized John wasn't the only one.  T for language.


**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, I wish I did, but, sadly, I don't.**

It was past midnight when the cab pulled up outside 221 Baker Street. The ride had been in complete silence, save the breathing of the two men in the back seat. It was not a heavy silence; both men were calm, peaceful, relieved, confused.

John Watson had spent the ride happily surprised that he was alive to do so. He remained in silence, breathing heavily, feeling forever indebted to the man beside him.

Sherlock Holmes had spent the ride confused as to why he was there in the first place - confused by his own confusion. He should have seen it. He was the best, no one could beat him. He could outwit anyone. That was his identity - the man unbeatable in a battle of wit. But this man, this James Moriarty, he had almost defeated him. He had found his weak point, the one he himself had not even known the existence of. And if it hadn't been for a well timed phone call, he wouldn't be in the cab to mull this over. But had he been wiser, quicker, better, more Sherlock, he would have seen how horrible this man was. The man who tricked Sherlock Holmes. Jim from I.T. Gay romantic.

_He's not gay. Why do you have to spoil - he's not!_

Of course, it would be Molly Hooper, sweet, blissful, annoying Molly Hooper, who could invade his mind without his consent from however far away.

_Alright, then, _Sherlock consented within his head. _Not gay, Miss Hooper. Just psychotic and a murder._ He wondered what her expression would be when she found out that, yet again, she had made a poor dating choice. In the several years he had known her and taken advantage of her access to the morgue, he had watched her date countless men, none of them making it past date three. Silly Molly Hooper.

That was when the cab stopped. Sherlock absentmindedly got out of the cab, still conversing with Molly Hooper in his head (_How had her voice made itself so at home and comfortable within his mind?_) John paid the cabbie and made to join Sherlock on the steps before entering back into the relative safety of their flat.

As they entered the building and made their way upstairs, Sherlock continued to justify his incorrect deductions about James Moriarty to the sweet voice within his head. _For all we know, Miss Hooper, he could still be gay. Just because he's insane _-

That was when it hit him. He knew Molly Hooper by now, not to the extent he knew most people, something about the morgue assistant was...peculiar to him, something he couldn't easily deduce. Regardless, he knew that, if the voice in his mind was on Baker Street in her physical form, she would storm away at this point in their conversation. That was what she had done last time they spoke, when he had proven - or thought he had proven - Jim's homosexuality. But he hadn't seen her since. Probably still being a romantic schoolgirl about her date at the Fox. Her date with Jim. Jim who was James. James Moriarty, who showed no mercy, who could kill senselessly. James Moriarty, who had taken advantage of Molly Hooper for her...acquaintanceship? with the great Sherlock Holmes. Molly Hooper, who he hadn't seen since then. He held up his hand to stop whatever John was saying to him.

"Have you been at the morgue tonight?"

"Have I...I'm sorry, what?" John's response sounded all too confused. Wasn't it obvious what he had asked?

"Have. You. Been. To. The. Morgue?"

He couldn't understand the blank yet still angry look the shorter man gave him.

"Have I been at the morgue? Tonight? Yes, Sherlock, I made some time while getting tied up to some _fucking explosives_ to go get you some body parts from the morgue. Why do you -"

But Sherlock had already turned and was quickly making his way back to the street.

"Sherlock, where are you going?"

There was a strong cool breeze as Sherlock Holmes climbed into the first stopped taxi and shut the door without a response.

It had been one of _those _nights. The type of night after she had broken it off with a really sweet guy from the hospital because she was too hung up on some stupid detective. The type of night when she sat on the couch with ice cream, her cat, and some recordings of television shows she hadn't caught up on. Look at her, 29 years old and watching crap shows well past midnight. Her mum was right: Molly Hooper was on her way to becoming a crazy cat lady.

It wasn't as though she didn't try, she did. It was just, well, she had to be invisible or something, didn't she? She wasn't the best flirt, she knew that, but she had been trying to catch Sherlock Holmes's eye since they had met. She stroked her cat's head absentmindedly, letting her mind wander to that mysterious place where Sherlock Holmes sat with her on that hideous couch. She was slowly drifting off to sleep when the bell buzzed. She lazily got off the couch and pressed the speaker.

"Hel-"

"Molly, I need you to let me up now."

Of all the ways she had hoped her night could end, Sherlock Holmes ringing her bell at almost one in the morning was near the top of the list.

Of all the ways she had expected her night could end, Sherlock Holmes ringing her bell at any time was ridiculously improbable.

Molly wasn't sure how to respond, so she settled for silence and buzzed him in. She had barely fixed her t-shirt when there was a knock on the door. She hadn't realized it was possible to climb the stairs so quickly. Within a matter of seconds, she was standing in her doorway, staring down Sherlock Holmes, who was wearing an expression she couldn't quite recognize.

"You, uhm, you can come in i-if you'd like."

"You're okay."

They spoke at the same time. If this was a romantic comedy, they'd be in her bed in under ten minutes. But Molly Hooper was fully aware that her life was far from a romantic comedy.

"I - what do you mean 'You're okay?' Why wouldn't I be?"

Sherlock seemed to be at peace with that. He stood up straighter, she hadn't realized he hadn't been. He looked pensive, although she was used to that.

"Sherlock, is everything alright?"

"Hm?" That seemed to bring him back into his head. "Yes, of course. And you're alright?"

"I - yeah." She knew he wouldn't care, the make-him-jealous tactic clearly hadn't worked, but there was no real harm in telling, was there? "I broke up with Jim. It didn't - he - we, uh, weren't, I dunno, meant to be, I guess."

It sounded almost idiotic once she said it out loud. But, to her surprise Sherlock smiled, or something close to it. It was a sad smile, but she was pretty sure it was as close as her could do. He shrugged his shoulders and turned to leave.

Why was he leaving so quickly? Why had he wanted to make sure she was alright?

"Sherlock!" He turned around and she bowed her head slightly, looking up through her eyelashes. It always working in the movies, didn't it? "Why did you really come here tonight?"

But, as she knew, her life wasn't some romantic comedy. To no surprise, Sherlock didn't grab her and kiss her passionately, declaring his long hidden love for her. Instead, he just continued to look at her with a face she couldn't read.

"I found out who was behind the case I've been working on." That was unexpected.

"The one with the shoes?" There was something about the look on his face, the way his eyes were studying her face. She suddenly felt exposed and crossed her arms tightly over her chest. Of course he was just here for something work related. Probably to ask for a body or something. "What do you need from me?"

"I'm glad you broke up with him, Molly."

Her heart was racing. Why did he have to keep do this to her, throwing her feelings mindlessly around?

"Why?"

To her surprise, he reached out his hand and placed in on her arm, against her elbow.

"Do you know his last name, Molly Hooper?"

"I- uh, I'm- M something. "Mor" something. Sherlo-"

"Moriarty, Molly. James Moriarty." His voice was more bitter than she had ever heard it. "The world's only consulting criminal. A man willing to do anything to prove he can bring down Sherlock Holmes."

No. Absolutely not. There was no way that Jim - sweet, caring, gay Jim from IT- was some deranged killer set against Sherlock Holmes. Her mouth felt all too dry. She wanted to say something, but no words came out. She pulled the door shut, forcing Sherlock into her flat and made her way to the kitchen. Finger shaking, she poured two small glasses of wine. Looking back to where she could see Sherlock's shadow, she sighed. She filled the glasses to the brim. Still without speaking, she made her way back to where the detective stood and handed him a glass before taking a probably too large sip from the remaining wine glass. There were so many things she wanted to say. _Was he really alright? Was John alright? How did he know it was Jim? Why was it Jim? Why had he picked her? Was he still alive?_ Of course, what she ended up asking was:

"Did you have him arrested?"

"He left, don't know where he is."

"Why are you here?"

She wasn't sure what made her ask it, but she needed to know. Sherlock didn't care about people. He cared about himself and his work. She knew that. But here he was, at nearly one in the morning, standing awkwardly in her flat, drinking wine and making sure _she_ was okay.

Sherlock started, unsure of how to respond. Why was he here? What made Molly so important that he was genuinely concerned for her health. Inside of his head, Molly's voice hissed that it was to ensure he still had access to the morgue. His own voice respond, annoyed, that it _needed_ to know that Molly was safe, he would never let her get hurt because of his work.

But that was foolish.

"Well, Molly, last I heard you were dating Mr. Moriarty, so I decided that the logical thing to do was to make sure you were safe and still had no desire to kill me."

Oh. She bowed her head, staring intently at her feet.

"Right. Okay, then. Yeah, I'm fine Sherlock. And I don't want you...dead."

Sherlock smiled and handed back his half full glass.

"Good, I should hope it stays that way." And then, without another word, he opened the door and left.

"Goodnight, Sherlock," Molly said quietly, shutting the door. She stared at her cat for a moment, unsure if she wanted to continue her show. She leaned against the wall.

Jim was the one who was killing - or trying to kill - all these people. Jim. _Jim._ Jim who should have helped her get over Sherlock. _Yeah, Mols_, she thought to herself. _That plan went real well._

There was a rap on the door. Perplexed, she opened it without looking to see who it was.

_Smart, Mols, you go open the door even though your ex turned out to be a psychotic killer on the loose._

The thin face of Sherlock Holmes looked down at her. He looked...maybe uncomfortable? But that was ridiculous, nothing bothered Sherlock Holmes.

"I just," he paused, so unlike him, "I'm glad that you're okay, Molly."

She smiled.

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

"Goodnight, Molly."


End file.
